Nightfall Over Shanghai (27 page)

May 31, 1945

By the time Franz reached the Kadoorie School, his shirt was drenched in sweat. He knew the mugginess only heralded the first of many approaching summer heat waves.

In the past, Franz had often walked his daughter to and from school, but months had passed since he had last stood out front waiting for the school bell to ring. The work at the hospital had been more intense than ever and, besides, he knew Hannah preferred the company of her friends these days. But he promised himself now that he would resume the school routine with his daughter and do the same for Joey once the boy reached school age.

While Franz waited, he reflected on the surreal happenings of the past month. Germany's surrender had come and gone with surprisingly little fanfare in the ghetto. The sheer scale of the mass murder of European Jews, which was becoming more widely known now, overshadowed any joy the refugees could take in the Nazis' defeat. The Japanese occupation prevented people from learning the specifics of what had happened to family and friends left behind in Europe, but Franz, like almost every other refugee,
assumed the worst. No one could have been left untouched by the genocide. The question on most people's minds was whether any of their loved ones had survived.

It struck Franz as ironic that the level of anxiety among the Jewish refugees had actually risen in the wake of Germany's surrender. The threat of starvation had become even more acute since local farming and food distribution networks had been disrupted by the American bombing and Chinese ground advances. Stories of kamikaze pilots sacrificing their lives to attack American ships only fuelled the belief in the ghetto that the Japanese would never surrender. And if they planned to fight to the last man, then wouldn't they be certain to take the refugees down with them?

Reports of empty barges spotted on the Whangpoo River had ignited a rumour that the Kempeitai were about to invoke a plan—apparently first suggested three years earlier by visiting SS officials—to load the Jews onto empty ships and incinerate them upriver. Panic seized the ghetto. Franz was summoned to an emergency meeting of the Refugee Council. No one presented any evidence to support the rumour, but people were worried because Ghoya had refused to refute it. Franz tried to convince the others that such behaviour was typical of Ghoya, but his reassurances fell on deaf ears. The night after the meeting, several families stole out of the ghetto after curfew, attempting to disappear among the masses living in Frenchtown and the International Settlement. All of them were caught and viciously punished. Franz, who had tended to several of the victims, had not been surprised by the severity of the men's injuries, but he found the sight of women beaten to the point of unrecognizability deeply unsettling.

It wasn't an isolated episode either. As the Japanese sensed impending defeat, they behaved increasingly erratically. A few
days before, a group of drunken soldiers had savagely attacked several elderly Hasidic Jews, seemingly for sport, killing two of them and maiming three others. Ghoya had blamed the old men for “inciting the soldiers.”

All the while, American bombers and fighter planes passed overhead with increasing frequency. Sometimes they flew low enough to buzz the ghetto. Many of the Chinese and even a few brazen refugees would stand on the rooftops to cheer on the planes, waving flags and shouting out their support. The planes inevitably targeted ships in the harbour or buildings outside the city, but Franz kept his word to Sunny. At the first sign of the bombers, he would head for the shelter nearest to the hospital, often finding himself alone inside as others went about their business without paying any attention to the planes overhead.

The pall hanging over the ghetto was magnified at home. Hannah had become withdrawn and sullen. Esther blamed Franz. She had confronted him the week before with uncharacteristic ire. “How can you be so selfish, Franz?” Esther cried, her cheeks flushed. “To force this … this Zionist fantasy on your family. Your daughter is heartbroken and your wife is in despair. Is this what you want for them?”

The guilt was eating at Franz. He had tried to talk to Hannah after Esther's scolding, but his daughter refused to engage in discussion. Meanwhile, Sunny was lost in mourning.

Chih-Nii had spared no expense on Jia-Li's funeral, turning it into a spectacle for seemingly all of Shanghai to take part in. No one knew how Chih-Nii had deflected the blame for the Kempeitai officer's murder away from the Comfort Home, but Franz suspected considerable sums of money and other favours must have been involved. Regardless, the madam had held a three-day wake
at the Comfort Home, with Jia-Li's casket ensconced in a mountain of white irises. On the day of the burial, the funeral procession wound its way through Frenchtown, led by the haunting tones of a traditional Chinese band. It wasn't until they reached the cemetery that Sunny finally broke down. Kneeling at the graveside and lighting the joss paper, she suddenly toppled forward, her soft sobs evolving into something much more anguished. To see Sunny, usually the epitome of composure and poise, weeping and clawing at the loose dirt beside the grave, broke Franz's heart. She hadn't shed another tear since the funeral, but sadness cloaked her like a cape.

The ringing school bell pulled Franz out of the memory. Students streamed out of the decrepit building, which still looked to him more like an old warehouse than a school. He spotted Freddy's tall figure among the pack of students and assumed that the girl with him was Hannah, but as soon as Franz glimpsed her dark hair, he realized that she wasn't his daughter. Freddy caught his eye and flashed him an awkward grin before veering off in the opposite direction.

Hannah emerged a minute or two later. Herschel Zunder stuck close by her side, but her gaze was fixed on the ground. “Hannah,” Franz called to her.

She turned to Herschel and spoke to him briefly. The boy nodded before walking off.

“What are you doing here, Papa?” Hannah asked as soon as she reached him.

Franz hugged her, but she was stiff in his arms. “Do I need a reason? I used to walk you home all the time.”

“I'm not a child anymore.”

Franz might have teased her about her age but, reading her
fragile mood, he held his tongue. “I saw Freddy leaving a little earlier,” he said.

Hannah only shrugged.

“Is something the matter between you two?”

“We are fine.” She turned and began to walk.

Not that long ago, Franz would hold hands with Hannah on their way home. She would talk non-stop, sharing news from class: quizzes she had excelled on, plays she planned to audition for and new friends she had made or, occasionally, lost. But now she kept her distance from him and didn't say a word, forcing Franz to fill the void with small talk.

Once they reached Ward Road, Franz finally stopped and turned to her. “Listen, Hannah-
chen
, nothing is decided.”

“Decided?”

“About Palestine. We don't know when Shanghai will be liberated. And once it has been, we don't know when or even if we will be able to leave.”

Hannah only nodded, her eyes as despondent as ever.

“It hurts me to see you so unhappy.” He cleared his throat. “I would never do anything to make you suffer. I want only the best for you, Hannah. You must know this.”

“I do, Papa,” she said quietly.

“When you were a very small child, I took such comfort in knowing we lived in the most enlightened and peaceful city in the world. That you would always be safe. But surely, if this terrible war has shown us nothing else, it has shown that we Jews will never be safe outside our own homeland.” He paused, waiting for her response, but none came. “Believe me,
Liebchen
, I am not so keen on moving to a strange land in the Middle East that might be even hotter than Shanghai. But you
were the one who used to tell me how badly they would need people like us—doctors, students, families and so on—to build this new country.”

“I know.”

Franz hung his head, his chest heavy. “Hannah, I will not force you to go. And we will never leave here without you. So, when and if the time comes, if you still feel—”

“I want to go, Papa,” she said nonchalantly.

Franz couldn't hide his surprise. “You want to go?” he echoed.

“Yes. I want our family to move to Palestine.”

“But … but Esther said that you were so upset.”

Hannah sniffled. “It's not that.” Her voice cracked.

Franz slid an arm around her shoulders. “What has happened, Hannah-
chen
?”

“It's Freddy.” She buried her face in his chest.

Franz couldn't believe his own obtuseness. Even after seeing the boy on the steps with another girl, he hadn't put it together until now. “He has hurt you?
Again
?”

She just nodded into his chest and continued to weep quietly.

Franz rocked Hannah in his arms, listening to her sobs. His heart ached for her while his thoughts turned dark.
Never again will I allow that boy anywhere near you. Never.

***

An hour later, Franz was back on the hospital ward. As he reset a cast on the arm of an elderly Hasidic Jew, his mind was miles away, fuming over Freddy.

“Don't you look official, Herr Professor Doktor,” a voice said from somewhere behind him.

Franz turned to see Ernst, cigarette dangling from his lips and pet monkey straddling the back of his neck.

“Sir, the monkey,” Miriam called frantically to him from across the ward.

“Is doing fine, Nurse,” Ernst said. “However, we both thank you for your concern.”

“No, sir, it's … it's not proper. The germs …”

“Kaiser Wilhelm has a strong constitution,” Ernst said. “I am quite certain he will not catch anything here.”

Franz stifled a laugh as he stripped off his gloves. He hurried over to Ernst and guided him off the ward and away from the flustered nurse.

They sat together at the table inside the staff room while Kaiser Wilhelm scurried about and climbed the furniture as though looking for something he had lost. “What brings you to the hospital?” Franz asked.

“People are disappearing from Germantown right, left and centre,” Ernst said.

“Which people?”

“Your friend, the baron, to begin with.”

“He's gone?”

“Yes, along with Major Huber and several others. Gerhard tells me they're trying to reach South America. To catch a boat to Argentina, of all places.”

“I hope his ship sinks.” Franz snorted.

“I will not miss the arrogant sod.” Ernst blew out a stream of smoke. “I will, however, miss Simon. Well, eventually, anyway. Right now I am appreciating the blissful quiet.”

“What does that mean, ‘miss Simon'?” Franz sat up straighter. “Where did he go?”

Ernst crinkled his nose. “You must have seen him by now, surely?”

“Where would I see him?” Franz asked, on edge again. “You know I'm not allowed to leave the ghetto.”

Ernst grimaced. “But Simon is
here.
In the ghetto.”

“Since when?”

“Yesterday. When he left the flat.”

“Unless he's already been arrested,” Franz breathed. “I told you it would be foolish for him to try to leave.”

“You think I encouraged this?” Ernst groaned. “I've spent most of the past year trying to talk him out of it.”

Franz thought of the torturous week he and Simon had spent in the basement of Bridge House.
Oh
,
Simon, what have you done?

***

Franz sidled down the narrow corridor to Ghoya's office, bypassing the long queue of dejected refugees and hearing only a few half-hearted protests as he cut in line.

Ghoya sat behind his desk lecturing the middle-aged woman who stood in front of him. Spotting Franz at the door, he broke into a smirk. “Ah, Dr. Adler,” he said as though he had been expecting him. He turned back to the woman and dispatched her with a flick of his wrist. “Not today, Frau Silberstein. No pass for you. Go, go.”

The woman shot Franz a scornful glance as she trudged past him.

Franz bowed deeply. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Ghoya.”

“It has been too long, Dr. Adler.” Ghoya placed his hands behind his head and leaned back in his seat. His amused smile suggested that he was in a good mood, but Franz knew how quickly that could change. “How is the family? Your disobedient daughter? Your charming wife? They are all well?”

Ghoya's friendliness only compounded Franz's unease. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

“Ah, good, yes. Tell me, Dr. Adler. You must have heard the rumours?”

“Which rumours, sir?”

“The barges!” Ghoya pulled his hands from his head and leaned forward in his chair. “The burning barges. It's almost all you Jews are talking about these days.”

“I did hear some talk, yes.”

“Is this why you have burst into my office?” Ghoya demanded. “To find out if they are true?”

Franz carefully considered his response. He had come about Simon, not about the rumours, but he was acutely aware of the risk he was running. If Simon had not been arrested, the last thing he wanted was to tip off Ghoya to his friend's presence in the ghetto. “Are they true, Mr. Ghoya?”

“You Jews, you worry so.” Ghoya clasped his hands together theatrically. “Worrying and fussing all the time like a bunch of old women. Yes, yes. Just like a bunch of gossiping old women.”

Franz forced a laugh. “We are a race of worriers, it is true. But this rumour is significant.”

Ghoya's face puckered into an ugly frown. “This is war,
Dr. Adler. Who knows what to believe anymore?” he said, echoing what von Puttkamer had said to Franz.

“Yet you are the King of the Jews, sir,” Franz gently probed.

“Yes, yes, I am. So what?”